The Stranger in the Woods
by PippinStrange
Summary: Ethan was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Breaking and entering lands him among two irate workers of an international drug cartel. But someone—or something—saves his life, and unwittingly carries him as their prisoner into a fantastical universe where wizards are real and dragons hoard treasure. OC member of Thorin & Company. Rated for graphic violence/language
1. Idle Hands

**The Stranger in the Woods**

**By Pippin Strange**

* * *

**Summary: Ethan—25, homeless, the wrong place, the wrong time. Breaking and entering lands him among two extremely irate workers of an international drug cartel. But someone—or something—saves his life, and unwittingly carries him as it's prisoner into a fantastical universe where wizards are real and dragons hoard treasure.**

* * *

**Rated T for language, drug references, alcohol use and scenes of torture/violence. Not for kids under 15.**

* * *

**Author's Note - Face character for Ethan: British actor Andrew Lee-Potts (google him if you can. He is recently known as "Hatter" in Syfy's 2009 "Alice" and Connor in BBC's "Primeval")**

* * *

**Chapter One**

**Idle Hands**

_Oh, god, _he thought, _this was a bad idea._

The dubstep bass of the club music was pounding against the door, and a pair of fists joined in unsuccessful rhythm.

"Occupied," snarled the British accent from the hunched figure within, bent over the sink with white-knuckled hands gripping the porcelain.

The walls, a mere three by three meters wide, closed in with black paint and neon graffiti, plastered with band posters and obscene notes scrawled with markers.

The man bent over and coughed several times, loudly and in such quick succession that he couldn't breathe. Then he vomited uncontrollably, shoulders shaking and involuntary tears squeezing out from his eyes. He wiped his mouth in a paper towel and looked up into the mirror. He could hardly recognized his own face. Its features were heart-shaped and juvenile, despite him being twenty-five years of age. The bags under his eyes and the shadow of a beard were strangers to him. It was a boyish face under the signs of hardship. And when was the last time he showered… shaved… or slept?

He had always been short, and his leather jacket hung slightly too long over his lean frame. He kept wearing it anyways. It gave him a very distinct look—a specific group of Britain's youth that didn't grow out of his black-jeans musician phase to become the posh employee at the BBC that his parents always dreamed he might be.

And now he wondered if he'd be paying for that decision with his life.

And getting pissed as hell when you're afraid for your life is also a very bad idea.

He finally opened the door and allowed a very angry, heavily mascara'd girl to push past him. She was crying.

Wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve, he asked carefully, "You all right, love?"

"Piss off," she snarled at him. She had bruises on her arms—drugs, or abuse?

"Need me to call anyone?" he persisted.

"No, I _don't _need you to call anyone, back OFF," the girl growled angrily. She slammed the bathroom door, and for a moment she reminded him of his ex.

No matter how badly _he _felt, he would crawl to hell and back for a stranger if they were really, truly sad and needed help. Unfortunately it was one of the reasons his girlfriend had dumped him…

"You have the Prince Charming syndrome. You're willing to bend over backwards for any girl with a sad face," she had said, "And I just can't compete with that and be happy. Maybe if _I _had a crises every day you'd pay more attention to me."

He understood her point, but he couldn't understand how she could ignore a trembling, sobbing figure hiding behind the dumpster near her flat. She had needed an ambulance, and he was the one to call it in. His girlfriend begrudgingly offered her mobile, rolling her eyes as she did it. Maybe he was better off without her…

He stepped warily back into the club from the cramped, dark hall and adjusted his eyes to the flashing strobe and neon flashes in the darkness.

It was a bad night… and the stress and worry and finally overtaken his common sense. He came here with the intention to hide in the darkness and get drunk. He succeeded on both accounts, but he did not leave room for the fact that when someone wants to kill you, they'll follow you.

And now, with the alcohol rushing to his head, the common sense that ought to have existed before now exploded with a self-inflicted downward spiral. He had had a lot to drink, he lost count sometime after drink number five—some sort of heavy spiced rum and licorice concoction that made him want to vomit again. But he found himself at the bar again, squinting at the menu on the counter, and holding up his fingers in the peace sign for item two. They handed him a double shot of whiskey, and he asked for his tab. He handed the cash across the counter, knowing it was the last twenty-eight pounds to his name, but starvation was the least of his worry at the moment. Then he gulped the double shot down.

It made his head feel as if it had expanded, leaving his brain room to bounce around—or it would if the alcohol wasn't filling up to that brim and sloshing in all the newly made room. His head was a cavern and his legs felt unattached as he turned for the exit.

"Going somewhere, _Ethan?_" a hand, wearing a black glove, pressed firmly against his chest, pushing him into the bar stool that he just vacated.

"What?" he replied, fighting to keep his eyes focused on the dark suit standing in front of him. "Goin' out. 'Scuse me." He tried to move past the traffic block, but the hand pushed him backwards again, slightly rougher.

"You are going nowhere. We're going to have a little chat."

_How did he find me? How did he know my name? _Ethan felt his elbow seized by a strong and cruel hand, and while his mind screamed _fight, run, escape, _he let himself be maneuvered into the shadows, in a corner booth. He was shoved into it, and knocked against the table. He cursed and finally got a glimpse of the bully—a man, tall, intimidating, dressed in far too nice a pinstripe uniform to be in an establishment like this.

"What you want?" he slurred.

"Answers. You stole from someone very, very important today."

"I stole nuffin'. You ain't got no proof."

"You're a liar." The man reached down and picked up a small, blunt butter knife from one of the table settings. He pulled a very small, gray block from his pocket, and began to run the knife's blade along it. It made a sickening, metal-on-sandpaper sound. "You know, narcotics is a very sticky, sticky business. Incidents like these aren't acceptable."

"I don't steal drugs, you got it wrong," Ethan protested, vaguely noticing that the high walls of the booth and the loud music would prevent anyone from hearing what was going on. "I'm—I'm a drunk—not a druggie."

"This is obvious," said the suited man serenely, despite his loud volume. He slowly slid into the booth beside Ethan. Ethan began to scoot out the other side, when suddenly, a second man—also wearing a dark suit and black gloves—slid in to prevent his escape.

"You gotta let me go," Ethan said. "I'm not the right one. Wrong place—wrong time."

"I'm sure," chuckled the second man.

"We know it was you," said the first. "Do you know how we know?"

"We saw you leaving the flat," said the second. "And our inventory was short."

"It ain't like that," Ethan looked at the two threatening presences and tried to speak in a way that was clear. "I—I'm homeless. See? Lost me job, lost me girl, just trying to pick up my feet, alright? I'm a squatter, that's what. I thought it was an abandoned flat—I just broke in, see, and slept on the couch…"

"Is that so?"

"Yeah, that's so—and if there were drugs hidden there—I never found 'em. Never touched 'em."

"Then when we came out of the garden, why did you run?"

"I'm a bloody squatter, I thought you was the owners, I ran for it."

"I think you are our thief," said the second man. "We have absolutely no qualms about killing a homeless man to preserve our business."

"Please… please… I'm begging you, no…"

"I can't quite hear you," said the man, testing his thumb on the edge of the sharpened knife. "Maybe you should exercise your vocal chords a little."

Ethan felt his adrenaline shoot into his brain to register what was going to happen before it actually happened. When the man slammed the knife, point downwards, through the back of Ethan's hand, Ethan thought about the _thunk _it made in the wooden table before he could feel any pain.

"Amazing, not a twitch," said the man, "Perhaps I didn't do it quite right." He twisted the handle in his fist, and Ethan screamed through gritted teeth, slamming his head backwards against the booth and then throwing himself forward. With his free hand, he wrenched at the knife, trying to pull it out. The second man pulled a pocketknife out of his chest pocket, flicked the blade open, and grabbed Ethan's other wrist.

"Stop, stop, no," Ethan shouted hoarsely. "Please don't…"

"Where'd you hide the drugs?" asked the second man. "If you tell us, we _might _not kill you. When you outran us this morning—and disappeared somewhere between here and the Thames—where did you hide them?"

"I didn't—hide—I didn't—steal 'em—please—you—gotta—believe—" Ethan seethed, each word bringing throb of bright red pain in his hand.

"Wrong answer," the second man held down his wrist, palm up, and plunged his own knife into it.

Bright lights exploded in front of Ethan's eyes, white-hot irons of pain shot in both hands, up his arms and into his chest. He fell forward, convulsing, slamming his head towards the table and back again, legs kicking uselessly. _"AGH!" _he tried to shout, his hoarse voice giving out like a nightmare where you can't remember how to scream.

Then, simultaneously, both men pulled the knives out at once. It was not relieving; the pain only burned the worse for having felt the blades pull through the wounds a second time. Ethan slumped to his left, explosions of black and white fighting each other in his mind for his state of consciousness. The men lifted his arms, and shoved his hands into his own pockets.

"God please—please," Ethan mumbled softly to himself.

"God has nothing to do with this," one of the men said with a sneer. They dragged him out of the booth, careful to pocket the knives and keep his bloodied hands hidden. They each took an elbow and guided him out into the raging club sounds again.

Once the neon lights flashed onto their faces, they adopted the charismas of friendly frat boys escorting their friend out for some fresh air. "Come on, mate," the first one said, "Let's get you 'ome to Mary."

"Bit sloshed, are ya?" said the second, laughing kindly and helping Ethan walk. "Next time, you're buying, and helping _us _walk home."

Their acting skills were admirable, but useless. No one paid any attention to two well-dressed men helping a drunk man out of a club.

The fresh, cold winter air hit Ethan's face like a slap. He jolted and tried to fight the men off, but was simply held all the tighter.

It was in the dead of night, all was quiet, an unearthly absence of sound when a city does not seem to be sleeping, but waiting like a predator.

They turned out of the club door, went down the sidewalk two paces, and turned into a seedy alleyway. There was trash, dumpsters, and fire escapes to apartments overhead. At the end of the alley was a gate with a dark clump of trees hanging over it, presumably a back entrance to someone's garden.

_If they kill me and leave my body here, _Ethan wondered, _would someone use their back gate and find me? Some kid on their way to school? _

His pulse had long left his neck and beat horrific drum rhythms in both hands instead. He could hardly feel anything, and yet he could feel everything. Each detail—the crack in the sidewalk—the cologne of the man—the trash from the dumpster—it all stood out as clearly as if they had entered a strange fourth dimension where everything was more real than ever before. He couldn't believe he had chosen to break into an old flat for a lie-in when he could have just taken the bus and begged his Mum to let him borrow his old room for a few hours. She wouldn't have said no, she wasn't that kind of woman.

If only, if only, if only…

The men knocked him to his knees. The first threw his sharpened club knife into the dumpster, flexing his hand in a way that made his black leather gloves squeak. The second pulled out his own knife, opening the blade so fast that flecks of blood flew off and speckled against Ethan's cheek. Then he pressed the knife to his neck.

Ethan's nostrils flared as he tried to breathe without moving, though it is difficult to do when one if hyperventilating severely. His hands were curled and trembling, stuffed into his chest. He wanted to keep his fists close… didn't want to bleed out…

He was going into shock, and he didn't realize it, but he vaguely thought he might be sobering up too quickly. He'd never been stabbed before—and now his first and second time had occurred in one night.

_WHAM! _He was slapped hard across the face, spinning him entirely around and landing him on his side, facing the entrance to the alley. _So close. Hail a cab. God, please… if you're there…_

"Where did you hide it?" hissed the men in the darkness. "Where is it?"

"If we don't have the full shipment," whispered the first to the second, "We are _dead. _We cannot afford to anger our only _international _buyer."

There was a rustle at the gate, neither of them noticed.

Ethan was lifted up, punched in the mouth, and then hoisted up again, and punched in the ribs—once—twice, same place—third, and two, at least, were broken.

"Hold his arm—like so."

"What for?"

"I'm going to dislocate it." _Snap. _"Where did you hide it, you rat?!"

Ethan crumpled into a heap, beyond begging—beyond caring—on the threshold of blissful unconsciousness. So close, and yet his mind refused to give over to blessed darkness where he could hide from the pain.

They lifted him by his lapels again. He was choking on his own blood.

"Where?" the voices demanded in unison.

The gate behind them crept open, and two, troll-like figures in full body armor came out, walking crookedly with bowed legs and leering masks that looked like goblins from a very good production company. Ethan registered them, in a haze, confusion crossing his face. What were a couple of costumed Doctor Who radicals doing in an alleyway at night?

The men heard the sounds of someone approaching. The goblin-masks ran crookedly, their gleeful faces sick under the orange streetlamp. They drew swords—real iron things from scabbards that must have cost a fortune on the internet.

"Call… the… police…" Ethan tried to say, holding out a mangled hand.

The goblin-costumes were upon the two men from the cartel before they could properly react. They unexpectedly—or miraculously?—plunged their evil, saw-sized swords into the bellies of the two men. Then, in synchronized movement, the pulled the blades out of their bodies—dragging entrails and bloodied strips with them—and walloped off their heads.

Two beheaded figures fell to the ground in lifeless heaps, their suits stained scarlet and their heads rolling away to join the heaps of trash.

"Garn, they 'ad no fight in 'em," snorted the most troll-ish looking one, green faced and fat. "What 'bout this blighter? Same?"

"No!" cried the goblin, sheathing his sword. "Prisoner, I 'spect. He looks more likely to talk if he's so yellow. The weak one."

A car went by the alley entrance. The two creature's heads jerked up and stared at the alley mouth.

"What in th' name of the dark lord was that?" said the troll.

"Disgustin' infidel magic, this is _elf _territory after all!"

"There ain't no elves in the north, just small men. But magic all th' same—I don' like it, master givin' us errands so far from the mountains…"

"Let's go back 'fore they notice we're gone—they won't take kindly to our havin' some sport while they hunt."

The troll licked his blade before sheathing it. He grabbed Ethan's arms, and the goblin grabbed his legs. When Ethan's weight pulled down at his dislocated shoulder, he cried out.

"Ow—shit! _Shit shit shit! _Please—please…"

"Mouthy, ain't he?"

Together, they carried him with no gentleness deeper into the alleyway, to the open gate. They pushed through into utter blackness, and the light of the single streetlamp gave way to stars above the garden's trees. Past the shrubs were much taller trees, higher then Ethan would have thought legal in a city yard.

The constellations blinked divinely behind the pinnacles of the tree-tops, and there were so many Ethan at once knew they must have dragged him into a park, perhaps one that he didn't know existed. He found his voice again.

"Please, I'm begging you, let me go," he managed to get out, gasping.

The response he got was a harsh laugh from the troll. It was a horror film come true, Ethan realized. So serial killers really do wear funny Halloween masks when they drag their victims to a place where no one can hear them crying…

"Let me go," Ethan wriggled, managing to fall partially to the ground. He kicked out with his feet instantly, keeping the goblin from recapturing his grip.

"HOLD 'IM!" commanded the goblin. "He's like a fish, he is!"

Ethan thought he spotted a campfire in the distance, and the sounds of many more voices… voices as unpleasant and wicked as the ones nearest him now.

_THWUNK. _The troll used the butt-end of a club, pulled from across his back, on the sensitive top of Ethan's head. Gravity jerked him downwards. Instant unconsciousness smote every sense, snuffing his mind like a candlewick pressed between the fingers of one who likes the burn.

* * *

**Please review and let me know if I should continue.  
**


	2. Waking Nightmare

**The Stranger in the Woods**

**By Pippin Strange**

* * *

**Summary: Ethan—25, homeless, the wrong place, the wrong time. Breaking and entering lands him among two extremely irate workers of an international drug cartel. But someone—or something—saves his life, and unwittingly carries him as it's prisoner into a fantastical universe where wizards are real and dragons hoard treasure.**

* * *

**Rated T for language, drug references, alcohol use and scenes of torture/violence. Not for kids under 15.**

* * *

**Face character for Ethan: Andrew Lee-Potts (google him if you can. He is recently known as "Hatter" in Syfy's 2009 "Alice") **

* * *

**Chapter Two**

**Waking Nightmare**

Ethan was drowning and woke up with a start. The goblin was leering over him, holding some sort of canteen to his mouth. The liquid was like ale that had been brewed in a coffin instead of a barrel… it burned and tasted rotten, and yet it spread unbidden energy and adrenaline—the kind that made him want to hurt someone—in his limbs.

He coughed, and hacked, and swallowed to keep himself from choking. The goblin pulled the canteen away and laughed. "Got 'is medicine," he growled.

Ethan was sitting against a fallen log, his wrists bound with old rope and there were dirty brown rags wrapped around his hands. He leaned over and spit out a mouthful of blood and brown ale.

His ribs pounded, taught against his skin and so sharp that Ethan felt that if he breathed they might pierce his lungs. His shoulder throbbed and his palms were still bleeding. Everything hurt and he wished they hadn't woken him up. "What—what are you doing?" Ethan gasped. He noticed—in the flickering, hellish firelight—there were more of these masked, costumed men, hunchbacked and demon-like. Perhaps thirty of them, perhaps more. "What—you—gonna do with me?"

"Take you back to goblin town, tha's what," laughed the trollish one. "We're a long way from 'ome and it's a long journey—ya might not make it," he added the last, with a sickening lick of his lips. "If ya die on the way—more'n likely—th' king don' need to know ya were ever found. An' the evidence…" he patted his gruesome belly. "You'll make a nice meal, you will."

"Don' you roast 'im over a spit yet," snapped another. "I kin' do without 'is meat, he's too skinny—but the king's favor? I can do with that…"

"We all could, idiot," replied the goblin, "Tha's why we sent so far north—'opin' we'll perish in battle or somethin', we're all out o' favor."

"Is that true?" said the troll, rather sadly. "It's a punishment, eh? I wadn't informed o' that…"

"You're jest too stupid," said the goblin.

"Is that so?"

"Aye! Stupidest of the lot! Tha's why you sent up to the useless north!"

"Pretty useless yourself, then, ain't ya, if you sent 'ere too, you scum!"

"Naw—jest to keep you from comin' back in one piece!"

And suddenly, they were both drawing their swords.

"Thought we was on the same side, we was," the troll snarled, saliva flying out of his mouth… which looked far too misshapen and fang-ish to be human. "I don' like your tone."

"I don' like your face," and suddenly, the goblin plunged his giant sword into the belly of the troll. The troll looked mildly surprised as he plummeted to the ground, and with a sigh, he was dead as a doornail.

"Lads," said the goblin to the rest, "Dinner is served!"

Ethan shut his eyes in horror. The rest of the creatures converged on their fallen comrade, and the sounds of armor breaking off was heard before the sounds of ripping flesh and crunching teeth followed.

_They're eating him… they're eating him… _Ethan thought, terror overwhelming him. His first suspicion was that he had been kidnapped by a satanic group of cannibals that dressed up and hid in parks. His other idea, the one growing far more likely by the minute… was that they _weren't human. _He was quickly losing all doubt that this was no longer a city park—nothing but trees and flat, leafy undergrowth for miles around. No houses, no city lights, nothing. And these monsters couldn't possibly fake wide, fanged mouths or cannibalism just because they wore costumes.

Before the sounds of the disgusting feast had subsided, Ethan had thrown up again, and came to believe the terrible truth. _This is another world. Drug induced, perhaps, or a hallucination… but these aren't human, and I am at their mercy. _

Eventually, the goblins settled into crude blankets around the embers of the dying fire. They set guards around the edge of camp, and one to sit on the log beside Ethan. Ethan slid in and out of consciousness, dimly aware of his goblin-guard slumping over and snoring as loudly as some of the others around the camp.

Something—a light, perhaps—seemed to flare inside Ethan's mind. It was like a guiding candle, whispering steadily, _Ethan, Ethan, wake up. Wake up. _

The fire had died. Dawn was a mere minutes away, the forest at its darkest hour. The goblin-guard had slid down the log beside Ethan, sleeping soundly, hands poised lifelessly over the hilt of his wicked sword. Everything—and everyone—was asleep.

Ethan slowly put the lapel of his leather jacket into his mouth, something to bite into should he need to scream. He slowly and carefully pulled his knees up, positioning his feet underneath him. Pushing his elbows back against the log, his ribs and shoulder tearing into him, he shakily stood very—very—slowly.

He almost passed out then, and took time to breathe, in and out, in and out. He turned and sat on the log, swung his legs over it, and began to stumble away from the campsite. With each step, he bit his jacket, hard. He couldn't afford to make a sound of pain and give his escape away. Thank god they—the men, or the goblins—hadn't broken a leg.

He knew there were guards somewhere—he didn't know where, he didn't know how he'd make it past them—he walked for thirty feet, or so, came out of the clearing and into the closeness of the woods, without meeting a single guard.

Out of the darkness, a hooded shape rose out of the bushes. Ethan had no time to react before an arm snaked around him from behind, wrapping itself around his throat.

"_Lle ya_, stranger?" whispered a voice—a pleasant, almost familiar voice.

"Please… please… _help me,_" Ethan said, helplessly and hopelessly, not understanding the man's question. His last 'rescuers' turned out to be anything but—why should these dark-clothed men in the woods be any different?

There was something about this voice, though… He found himself slowly losing his concentration, sliding towards the ground, his feet unable to support him. The hooded figure, and the man behind him, picked him up much like the goblins had. They carried him to a cluster of trees and bushes, where several horses were standing with impressive riders in cloaks on their backs.

"_Na vedui_, the scouts are back," announced one, quietly.

"What have you got there?"

"A prisoner of the orcs. He came wandering out of their camp right after we killed the guards. He's in a bad way."

"We have no time to play nurse maid. We have to kill this party and disperse."

"We cannot leave him here to die. _Boe de nestad!_"

"The hospitality of the elves have not taught you to prioritize, Elrohir. If you wish to do something about the boy, then he is yours to care for when we are finished here. But for now, leave him."

"Are you the judge of a man's life and death, now, Toseph?"

"Be quiet! Can we afford to argue like this on the eve of battle?"

"Always speaking the truth, Rangor. But I agree with Toseph—for _now, _Elrohir. Leave him here, cover him with a cloak. When we've won the battle, I will help you take the lad somewhere… where is the nearest village?"

"Bree."

"That's the little folk?"

"No, it's the last village of men. The little folk will visit, but not often. They are beyond the Brandywine."

"Geography lessons can come later."

"Yes, Toseph... Leave the lad. Take my cloak."

"_Le fael_, Brant."

Ethan felt himself lowered to the ground, and leaned against a rock. Someone tucked a thick, warm cloak around him like a blanket, wadding up a portion of it behind his head. It felt as comforting as a king sized mattress compared to what Ethan was used to as of late.

"Thank-you," Ethan tried to say, blood dribbling out of his mouth and down his chin. "Thank-you…"

"Rest, don't speak," said the one they called Elrohir. Ethan could hardly see his face, but gray eyes peered at him out of the darkness. "I will return for you."

"Don't leave me…" Ethan coughed, sounding like a lost child.

"I will not—depend upon it. _Av'osto._"

The darkness increased in sound if not in shadow… It was a living, breathing thing, pressing into Ethan with paralyzing force. The cloaked men mounted their horses and silently moved into an arrow-shaped position, plodding quietly towards the goblin camp where they would commence their deadly attack.

Ethan's eyes drifted shut, but he listened.

The leader of the grey company raised his arm and let out a battle cry. The camp exploded with chaos—the sleeping goblins awoke with shrieks and screams, the hooded men urged their horses into a gallop. Their hooves thundered into the clearing, trampling those not fast enough to react. The deafening clatter of war began—steel swords against the iron, the terror of those surprised, the trumpeting neighs of the horses, the warrior cries of the men, and the yelps of the goblins as they were slaughtered.

_My life depends upon the winner, _Ethan thought.

* * *

**Please review and let me know what you think! should I continue? **

* * *

**Sindarin (elvish) phrases used in this chapter  
**

_Lle ya_ –Who are you?

_Na vedui—_at last!

_Boe de nestad—_He needs healing

_Le fael—_thank-you

_Av'osto—_don't be afraid


	3. Fictional Reality

**The Stranger in the Woods**

**By Pippin Strange**

* * *

**Summary: Ethan—25, homeless, the wrong place, the wrong time. Breaking and entering lands him among two extremely irate workers of an international drug cartel. But someone—or something—saves his life, and unwittingly carries him as it's prisoner into a fantastical universe where wizards are real and dragons hoard treasure.**

* * *

**Rated T for language, drug references, alcohol use and scenes of torture/violence. Not for kids under 15.**

* * *

**Face character for Ethan: Andrew Lee-Potts (google him if you can. He is recently known as "Hatter" in Syfy's 2009 "Alice")**

* * *

**Chapter Three**

**A Fictional Reality**

The cacophony of battle slowly dimmed. The first gray streak of dawn lit the underbelly of a black cloud in the east.

Ethan heard the cry of victory, and to his deepest relief, the cheers were that of men and not of goblins.

"And now we honor our anonymity," said the loudest voice. "I will stay behind with the help of Tashook and Willim to burn the dead. We have no casualties among us but the orcs must not rot on this fair ground. Elrohir—Brant—you may see to your prisoner, though he is likely beyond your help."

"I prefer hope to despair," Elrohir's voice responded coldly.

"The rest of you may disperse," finished the voice of Toseph, undaunted. "_Novaer._"

"_Novaer_," murmured the shimmering darkness, and the gray cloaks disappeared into the everlasting twilight of the woods. Only two returned to Ethan's side, the ones they called Elrohir and Brant.

"Why do you allow Toseph to speak to you in such a manner?" Brant questioned. "He's a man… and you are an elf… and he is not a noble man, either."

"Nobility does not come with blood."

"No, but the _Dunedain_ ought to respect their natural leader—you are the oldest, and wisest…"

"I am better a shadow than a leader. My foster brother, Estel, will make a better member of the grey company than I. When he is of age."

"You believe you are no better? And this is why you let Toseph determine where the Rangers converge and when we do battle in the wilderness?"

"I cannot answer you," Elrohir said heavily. "Let's see to the stranger."

"We may put him over my horse, I shall walk."

"Wait. We may need to see to him here, before he is moved. It could aggravate his wounds. Tell me—stranger—where are you injured?"

Ethan's voice was tired and childish. "They stabbed my hands… and broke my ribs… and popped my shoulder out of joint…"

"Shoulder first," Elrohir said quickly. "Hold him down."

Brant placed an elbow and forearm across Ethan's chest, pushing him back against the rock. Elrohir pushed his hand into Ethan's shoulder, and seemed to pull his arm the wrong way—there was a horrible _crack _of blinding pain—

"Shit—bugger—arsehole—fu—" Ethan blurted out a string of curses, but Elrohir and Brant didn't seem to care whatsoever. He realized his shoulder no longer throbbed, it merely felt sore. "Oh… that feels good…" Ethan gasped, relaxing.

Elrohir took his hands in both of his, unwrapping the dirty rags that the orcs had tied around them. "Why did they stab your hands?" Elrohir asked. "Orcs are cruel, but often not so creative."

"It wasn't the things…" Ethan mumbled. "Two men did this to me. They thought—I stole something—but I didn't, I swear, I didn't…"

"These wounds are recent."

"The things beheaded the men who attacked me—I thought—I thought they were rescuing me. Then they abducted me and brought me here. I thought…" Ethan felt woozy. Brant had begun work on a small campfire, putting some sort of plant into a mortar. Elrohir was pouring clean water from his bag-like canteen onto the holes in Ethan's palms, cleaning out the dirt and the filth from the orcs trying to stop the bleeding. Clean and bleeding afresh, the stinging finally overwhelmed Ethan's stubborn consciousness.

He passed out and was glad for it.

Surprisingly, the glorious choir of birdsong lulled Ethan out of sleep and into a morning that wasn't a bloodstained nightmare. Surely it had all been a terrible drug and alcohol induced dream, he probably fell asleep in the alleyway. But where the drug part came from, he had no idea. He didn't use.

He opened his eyes blearily and looked down at his hands, wrapped in clean strips of grey cloth. _Okay… so that wasn't a dream… _His shoulder ached, and he looked down, and found his leather jacket laying across his legs. His torso had been bound tightly in the remains of his own shirt, the sleeves tied around the portion that now sported deep scarlet bruising. His head was pounding with, undoubtedly, the worst hangover he'd ever had in his life. What he wouldn't give for a pair of sunglasses to shield him from the bright, cheerful sunlight.

The forest was chilly, light mists rising from the soil and rotten leaves from the intense sun. The birds warbled, whistled, and tweeted in harmonious insanity. It was early morning, and the last eight hours of Ethan's life seemed like a horrible nightmare that left physical wounds.

Which brought him to his next curiosity—he assumed he was hallucinating and drunk when he seemed to be carried from an alleyway to the woods of some long-forgotten land. If he was now sober and awake, why was he still in that forest?

"You're awake," Elrohir was emerging out of the mists, carrying kindling in his arms. He dumped them beside the fire and came to Ethan's side, kneeling beside him and looking closely at his face. "Your mouth and hands need stitching. I have not the tools for it."

Ethan said nothing. He didn't know what to ask first… _who are you? Where am I? What is going on? Why are we camping?_

Elrohir handed him a leather skin pouch. "Cold water from the stream," he told him. "Hold it against your side, it will feel better."

Ethan accepted the pouch and held it gingerly against his bloodstained shirt. It was no ice-pack, but it was certainly comforting in comparison to nothing at all. "Thank-you," he said through swollen lips. He fell into silence again, watching Elrohir with numb curiosity. Elrohir, in the light, was far more mysterious than he thought. He seemed middle-aged, but young-faced, grey-eyed, dark of hair… and his ears were pointed.

Elrohir pulled a second canteen from the ground, uncorking it, and put it to Ethan's lips. The water stung, but Ethan was dehydrated and didn't care how much in pained him. He drank deeply. The water tasted earthy and strange, as if it came straight from a river…

All too soon, Elrohir pulled the canteen away. "Not too fast," he cautioned. "More in a moment." He returned the canteen to a leather-made pack near the fire.

Ethan took a deep, refreshed breath, and cleared his throat. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice hoarse and awful.

"I am Elrohir."

"But… what are you?" He hadn't meant to sound rude…

Elrohir paused and smiled grimly. "Son of Elrond and Celebrian." He added kindling to the fire, staring into the flames. Ethan sighed, that answer had not helped him much… he really wanted to know why the man's ears were pointed. He felt the conversation held between him and the other man held the answer, but his memory of their discussion was all too bleary.

"Where are we?" Ethan asked, instead.

"Chetwood, northeast of the village of Bree."

"I've never heard of these places… can you tell me where London is from here?"

"Lon-Don? I do not know the name."

"It's where the… the things… It's where they took me from."

"If I have not heard of it, it is not in the north," Elrohir replied carefully. He paused and looked at Ethan with a look, not of doubt in his honesty, but of worry for his mental competency. "I believe no such place exists."

Ethan felt defeated. "I must be in another world—I must be. Everyone knows London. It's a big city."

Elrohir came back to Ethan's side, taking his chin carefully in his hand and looking into his eyes with concern. "There are no such cities in Middle Earth—many kingdoms, but no city called Lon-Don. I suggest you rest—Brant will return with his catches soon, and we'll sup."

Ethan blinked. _I didn't hear that, I didn't… _"Did you just say Middle-Earth?" he repeated. "_Middle _Earth?"

"Yes."

"But that's—that's a book. Movies, I guess. Y'know, the Tolkien chap, everyone knows 'bout him. The writer. Hobbits an' all that. Never read 'em myself but…"

"We are very near the Halfling's lands… Though I do not know of a writer named Tolkien. Is he of Lon-Don?"

"It's _fictional,_" spluttered Ethan.

"Then it is as I thought," Elrohir replied, "There is no place called such here."

"Not London—Middle Earth. It's fiction."

"Calm yourself, you'll make your mouth bleed again," Elrohir said firmly. "You've been under great duress, and I gather, have had many blows to the head—far too many for one night. I will say only this—Middle Earth is where _you _are, now. Lon-Don is nowhere in Middle-Earth. You cannot deny where you are and survive."

Ethan's mouth was still agape, but he nodded.

"Believing dangers are not real is the most dangerous ignorance. Lon-Don may have been a dream. The reality that you are recovering from severe injury is what you must focus on." Elrohir stood, and wiped his hands on his mud-stained pants. "It will save you yet."

_He's an elf, _Ethan realized, both horrified and awestruck.

Brant emerged from the trees, carrying a skinned rabbit in his hands.

"_Na vedui_," Elrohir said with a welcome smile, a feature that seemed far more at home in his fair face than his previous seriousness.

"I didn't find much, I'm afraid, these woods are empty," Brant picked up a large stick and shoved in through the carcass in his hand. Ethan felt horribly nauseous and winced at the sound of it. "Little farmer-men have cleaned it out—and left none for the rangers who keep their ignorant lives safe! It is dreadfully inconvenient." Brant rested the stick between two others, forming a crude spit over the fire. The meat began to hiss and crackle. "If they only knew what we did to keep them all safe…"

"They are best left in ignorance—preserve some of the innocence in the world."

"You've been talking to that wizard, Gandalf the Grey, haven't you?"

A smile twitched in Elrohir's mouth. "His words are not easily forgotten."

"Is he in the north?"

"Not recently, no. Though I think he will be, soon."

"Any special occasion?"

"Not that I know of—I find it best to leave my questioning of wizards to a minimum."

"_Wizards,_" Ethan whispered quietly. "_They must be shiting me."_

"And how is our escaped prisoner?" Brant looked over at Ethan. "_Tolo anin naur!"_

Ethan blinked, trying to determine what he said. "Sorry?"

"_Pedig edhellen?"_ Brant exclaimed with a laugh.

"I don't… I don't know what you're saying," Ethan spluttered.

"No, he doesn't," Elrohir answered.

"It was worth trying, anyhow," Brant said. "I asked if you spoke Elvish."

"Oh, no, sorry," Ethan felt, for some reason, incompetent and impolite for not knowing Elvish. But why should he?

"When was the last time you had something to eat?" Elrohir asked, with glance over Ethan's sunken cheeks and too-large jacket.

When Ethan had broken into the flat, he checked the fridge, but there was nothing in it. Before then, he had wandered London, searching for a job. Every "inquire within" gave him a look of disgust before informing him the positions were filled. Every job ad in the paper had 'closed' as soon as they saw the state of the person applying. He had begun his morning by wishing he had breakfast… wishing he had saved half a bagel from the night before.

"Day before yesterday," he said, finally. No wonder he was drunk so quickly… empty stomach. Oh why, why why, didn't he just buy himself a sandwich and go to his Mum's? She might have even let him use the shower, too. If she was feeling generous... or if his dad wasn't home…

Elrohir made a sound of surprise and dug into his pack, pulling out a small wrapping. Pulling back the flap, square-shaped piece of bread sat inside. He broke off a chunk and handed it to Ethan. "Eat slowly or you'll feel sick. I'm afraid the meat will be too rich for you."

The sounds of the sizzling meat wasn't making Ethan too keen on eating it. He accepted the flatbread gratefully. "Thank-you." He took a small bite, and though it was slightly painful, he chewed it slowly. Then he drank more water from the offered canteen.

His stomach made a low grumble. "This is good," he said.

"Mere travel food," Elrohir said.

"To the homeless it's a feast," Ethan mumbled.

Brant and Elrohir fell silent.

"What are you going to do with me?" Ethan asked the question weighing the most on his mind. "You two… are… clearly important blokes… neighborhood watch or something… and I don't know where _my _home is…"

"We'll take you to Bree, lad," said Brant. "They've got a physician there, don't they, Elrohir?"

"Aye, and an inn. I'm sorry there isn't much we can do for you," Elrohir answered regrettably. "I am a healer, but I cannot see to your long-term recovery… though I wish we could take you to my home, instead."

"Your home?"

"Rivendell, the last homely house. My father _is _the greatest healer in the realm…" Elrohir grinned slightly. "And when we are not so serious, the elves are a merry folk."

"I can't imagine elves being any merrier than the men of Bree," chuckled Brant.

Ethan struggled to keep up. Rivendell… Rivendell… elf-city, likely as not, but how long had it been since he'd seen the movie? Ten years? It came out sometime before 2003… and he was living a different life then. A happy one. And he never read the books… now he wished he had…

"Elves," whispered Ethan in shock, to himself.

Brant started laughing. "You've never met an elf before, have you?"

"N-no…"

Elrohir smiled and shook his head. "It is well that it is I that found you, and not my brother, Elladan. I am far better company than him."

"Elladan is far more handsome, though," Brant teased.

"This is true," Elrohir responded, turning the spit with a chuckle.

"Lad, when I first met an elf, I felt much the same as you," Brant said to Ethan in friendly tone. "I was in awe, shock, I felt ignorant and silly… I wanted to be elvish, too," he paused, and added with a frown, "At least until I saw their ears."

Elrohir gave Brant a look. "And here, I thought we had been friends long enough to leave the ears well enough alone."

"But you speak elvish," Ethan pointed out, confused.

"What ranger of the north does not speak Sindarin?" Brant declared. "The grey company is not so rudimentary as to be limited to the common speech."

Ethan nodded, but he felt as confused as ever. And his head was pounding.

While they ate, and spoke both in English and Elvish, with Ethan staring wide-eyed. When they finished, Brant kicked dirt over the fire, and Elrohir began to roll up their blankets.

Brant untied two, beautiful horses from a nearby branch and led them close. One, a speckled gray, and the other, a rich chestnut. Ethan had never rode a horse and couldn't imagine how this was going to work.

"Come," Elrohir said, giving Ethan his hand. "Very slowly, now, we'll get you to your feet. Ready… now."

Ethan planted his feet and Elrohir supported his weight, heaving him upwards. The pain in Ethan's side skyrocketed and he bit back a moan. "Easy, now," Brant said, taking Ethan's other arm. "Now for the horse. Take a deep breath, and put your foot in this stirrup. Excellent. Now don't use your upper body, use your knees. When you straighten out, swing your leg over. All right?"

Ethan tried to do as they asked. He stepped up into the stirrup, and pushed with his foot instead of trying to pull himself up. Brant caught his leg on the other side and pulled him down into the saddle quickly before he could fall out. Ethan instantly grabbed the saddle-horn with his hands, panicking, but then let go quickly when it hurt his hands to make fists. "This is not… so… easy," he gasped.

"Never ridden a horse while injured before?" Brant asked.

"Never… ridden… ever."

"Where the devil are YOU from?" Brant asked rhetorically, laughing. "Now slip your feet out of the stirrups—my turn."

Ethan did as he asked, scooting backwards slightly. Brant mounted the horse, took up the reigns, and looked over his shoulder at Ethan. "Hold on to my cloak. We'll take it slow."

With a nudge of his knees, Brant urged the horse forward. Ethan wrapped his arms around a wad of his cloak, trying not to use his hands. On the grey horse, Elrohir led the way down the nearly untraceable forest path.

The sun was rising and the birds kept trilling loudly. Ethan sighed and shut his eyes, awkwardly leaning his forehead into Brant's back. His migraine was far too severe to keep up a pretense of enjoying the ride any longer. He just wanted to sleep…

"Ah, look, you can see the village from here," Elrohir pointed.

Ethan sat up slightly and looked to the left. They had come to a break in the trees, and down a steep hill, there was a view of farmlands, rolling countryside, and smoke coming out of chimneys from thatched rooftops. It looked far more civilized than the orc-camp, like a pleasant English village in the country.

It almost looked home-like, but Ethan was surprised to find it did not make him feel homesick.

* * *

**thank-you for your reviews! please let me know what you think!  
**

* * *

**Elvish used in this chapter  
**

_Novaer—_farewell

_Na vedui—_at last!

_Tolo anin naur—_come near the fire

_Pedig edhellen—_do you speak Elvish


	4. The Village of Bree

**The Stranger in the Woods**

**By Pippin Strange**

* * *

**Summary: Ethan—25, homeless, the wrong place, the wrong time. Breaking and entering lands him among two extremely irate workers of an international drug cartel. But someone—or something—saves his life, and unwittingly carries him as it's prisoner into a fantastical universe where wizards are real and dragons hoard treasure.**

* * *

**Rated T for language, drug references, alcohol use and scenes of torture/violence. Not for kids under 15.**

* * *

**Face character for Ethan: Andrew Lee-Potts (google him if you can. He is recently known as "Hatter" in Syfy's 2009 "Alice")**

* * *

**Chapter Four**

**The Village of Bree**

When they reached the outskirts of the village, Elrohir drew his hood up over his dark hair and pointed ears.

"What's he doing that for?" Ethan asked.

Brant replied, "These are simple folk… farmers, gardeners, fishermen. To them—elves are just like stories. Real for a moment, but after 'the end' you can go to bed and forget they existed."

"So if they saw an elf, they'd…" _Freak out? Lose their marbles? _"Go bloody crazy?"

"Perhaps. The Grey Company often passes unseen, and the less of us that cause a conundrum, the better. We'll slip out quietly after you've been settled."

"And I'll just… stay somewhere," Ethan finished lamely. His eyes suddenly widened. "Wait—stop—I can't just _stay somewhere, _I've got to go back!"

"Why?" laughed Brant. "Do you have an appointment?"

"It's the blow to the head, I wasn't thinking clearly. I can't go _deeper _into this world, I've got to go back—and find the gate! If I go through the gate I'm home. I've got to go home. I'll never find my way back if I stay, if you lot are leaving me alone I'll be trapped here, I know I will."

"Calm yourself!" Brant had not heard his conversation with Elrohir earlier, and was completely ignorant of London. "What _gate? _I can tell you, there is nothing in those woods."

"Nothing! That's where the goblin-things brought me! The gate is there, I assure you…"

Elrohir looked over his shoulder, and gave a small shake of his head. "I do not lie to you about this," he said, "But Lon-Don is _not _in Chetwood, nor is the entrance to it. There are many lost kingdoms in Eriador but Lon-Don is not one of them."

"Lon-Don isn't—I mean, _London _isn't like most places," Ethan spluttered. "The gate is hiding in the bushes, if I go through it, I leave Middle-Earth entirely, don't you see?"

"Ah, a magic gate," Brant played along, not picking up on the panic that Ethan was feeling. "Because the Istari installed portals to ease their passage from our world to the Valar!"

"I don't know what that means," Ethan declared, frustrated.

"Believe me, Ethan," Elrohir interrupted. "There is nothing in Chetwood. If we turn back now, and let you wander about looking for a lost gate to an ancient kingdom unheard of by two rangers whose _livelihood _is the north, we are doing you a terrible disservice."

"But my home…"

"Your home doesn't exist," Elrohir said a little coldly. He dismounted his horse, and waited for Brant to pull up side-by-side. "Remember, you've been struck on the head—several times, I would guess. Which sounds more reasonable—searching the smallest, most insignificant patch of woods that Bree-land has to offer for a lost gate to a city no one knows of, or, seeing a physician? Which is the more sensible thing to do?"

Ethan felt beaten. The elf couldn't understand the importance of it. It was impossible to make him get it.

He did not answer.

"I thought so," Elrohir concluded, satisfied. "You want the inn, the sleep, the care. It is what is best for you, and if your injuries could speak they would say the same."

"My advice," Brant added, "Is never argue with elves." He slid off the horse, positioning himself before Ethan. "Do it like I just did. If you jump, it'll hurt. If you slide off, you'll have less of an impact."

Ethan swung his leg over, and slowly felt himself sliding down the saddle and towards the ground. Brant caught his arm so that when his feet landed on the firm soil, his knees did not buckle when pain raced through his side and into his heart.

They were not taking the main road into Bree, that was certain. They had emerged out of the woods, and the rabbit trail had turned into a small path behind a pasture fence. There were several ponies inside the pasture, and their heads jerked up with curious whinnies when they saw the tall horses of the rangers.

When they reached a gate, Elrohir opened it up, took the reigns of Brant's horse, and led them both inside. Ethan leaned with exhaustion against the fence post as they worked quickly to undress the horses of their tack, carrying the saddles in their arms and throwing the bridles over their shoulders.

"Can you just leave your horse in any old garden?" Ethan asked.

"These are boarders," Brant explained. "Timothy Butterbur knows us. He owns the inn, the Prancing Pony…been in the family for generations. We'll stay the night there and they'll put our horses in the stables with their ponies at dusk." Brant paused. "It's astonishing that we found you in _Chetwood _and you don't know a thing about riding a horse and staying at an inn."

"Like I said, I'm not from here," Ethan replied, rather crankily. With each step, it felt hard to breathe, but he was far more worried about getting home eventually. Home, of course, being the entire city of London… it's not like he had a warm bed to return to. At least, not like a warm bed that awaited him at the inn.

That's why he hadn't felt homesick—fear had made him desire London, but the reality of London was no shelter and cold nights. Maybe it _was _better to come into Bree. After all, what was waiting for him? A murder charge for the beheadings of two henchmen in an alley? A dumpster with his next meal in it? Sleeping under a bridge?

"I have no money," Ethan said, suddenly. "I spent my last twenty-eight… or thirty… I don't recall. I spent my last pounds on a _lot _of booze."

"Booze?"

"Ale…?"

"Ah," Brant nodded, adjusting his arms around the large saddle. They came to a fork in the path, one end continued on between the wood's edge and the fences, and the other turned left in between two paddocks. They turned left, Ethan gratefully keeping one hand on the railing of the fence for support as he walked. He hardly noticed the pain in his hands, alighting and beginning to feel fiery again. He just concentrated on walking.

"So you got drunk and kidnapped by orcs," Brant concluded.

"Rotten luck," Ethan replied breathlessly, hitting a knot in the wood with his hand. He hissed and jerked it back, finding it too difficult to flex his fingers. "About the money…"

"Timothy owes me a favor," Elrohir said easily. "I'm afraid he and Elladan had a disagreement…"

"Did it have anything to do with ears?" Brant asked.

"A disagreement between species," Elrohir corrected, "And, yes, that discernable feature of ours may have come up. The misunderstanding ended with Master Timothy begging for Elladan to 'let him make it up to him somehow'. Elladan pretended to debate between a duel or a favor, and finally chose favor."

"Will he grant that favor to you?" Brant asked, in surprise.

"We look so alike, he would not dare refuse," Elrohir said flippantly.

"Are elves always so dishonest?" Ethan asked confusedly.

"Not dishonest—no! But my brother and I have been called _rash_."

"And childish," Brant chimed in.

"From you, perhaps. But what can you expect? We have tempers, and Timothy insulted the Lord Elrond my father. He _will _take you in."

They came to the end of the path, which turned into an alley between two buildings, three stories tall, thatched-roofed, with beams criss-crossing elegantly along the siding like a cottage in Stratford-upon-Avon. While it was obviously Shakespearian, Ethan was reminded of an old cottage from the Snow White fairy tales.

He shivered when they walked between the two buildings. His last experience in an alley wasn't a pleasant one…

They entered a dirt and gravel street, quiet and empty save two farmers in their wagons plodding up the road, one after the other. Shops were open, and people bustled inside, most seemed busy within their establishments and not out of them. A man brushed by Elrohir and Brant, giving them a suspicious look over his shoulder before ducking into a General Store.

"Bree is not fond of anyone who is not a citizen," Elrohir stated.

Ethan spotted two small figures walking down the street, laughing and lugging pails towards a well positioned on a small, wooden rise in a small plaza. As they grew closer, Ethan realized they must be hobbits, for they were just over three feet tall and definitely not children. "Blimey," he whispered. The pain was growing worse in his hands and he pushed them into his pockets, trying to ignore them.

"_The Prancing Pony, _a fine inn—and the only inn—where rangers, hobbits, and men will mix company willingly." Elrohir stepped into the threshold and opened the door, dumping his saddle gear on the floor beside a hat stand. Ethan stepped inside hesitantly. The entry was dark, with no windows to the outside. A small counter sat on the left, where a portly-sized gentleman sat on a stool smoking a pipe.

"Morning, gents," said the man, puffing on the pipe and focusing on a large ledger in front of him. Despite wearing spectacles he had to peer close to the ink scrawlings. "How many rooms? Usual rate applies."

"Not quite, my good man," Elrohir said easily.

Timothy Butterbur glanced up worriedly, and when he saw the elf, he jumped off his stool and whipped his spectacles off. "Ah—uh—I am—_honored _to have the—the leader of the rangers once again in my establishment."

Brant gave Elrohir a look that seemed to say _I told you so—you ARE the natural leader._

"It seems that we have a room free of charge," Timothy Butterbur continued hastily. "But—but—just one, mind you. I mean, I am a business man, you see…"

"Just one will be fine," Elrohir said. "My compatriot and I are not staying, but we have an injured man here—I am very pleased to find that there is some compassion left in this world. You wouldn't turn away a man who had been attacked in the woods."

"The woods?" Timothy Butterbur repeated. "Our woods? That seems very unlikely. But—yes, yes, of course, right away—COBB!" He snapped loudly, calling through the small, curtained doorway across from his counter. When the curtain parted, Ethan caught a glimpse of a room full of tables, a lit fireplace, and a bar counter, and below the view, a hobbit had come through. It was a young hobbit, curly-haired and green-eyed.

"Cobb, show these gentlemen to the west room, and quickly now," Timothy looked at Ethan with growing suspicion. "The, uh, foreigner had an accident in the woods."

"I'll find our physician," Brant piped up. "Excuse me." He dumped his saddle gear beside Elrohir's, and went back through the front door and was gone.

Cobb looked at Ethan with wide-eyed bewilderment, noting the crust of the mouth injury and the bruising that was beginning to show like blueberry stains where he had been punched. "Follow me, then," and he beckoned them onward, down a short hall, around a right corner, and up six stairs. Ethan took a deep breath and went up slowly, shutting his eyes and concentrating on one foot in front of the other. His ribs protested with _pings _of pain, and his heartbeat had moved down into the hand that held the railing. Elrohir took his elbow and made him keep up a steady pace.

"These are our _fine_ rooms for gentlemen like yourselves," Cobb narrated as he plodded quickly along. He noticed Elrohir's ruffian garb of muddy boots and a large cloak and sped up. "Here we are," he opened a door, and Elrohir removed something pinned to his own cloak.

"Something for your trouble," Elrohir handed the pin to Cobb, and it glinted in the shadow and light. "This is real silver," he added, conspiringly.

"As I live an' breathe," Cobb gasped, examining the small clasp shaped like an ivy leaf. "What will I do with a bit of wealth like this?!"

Elrohir smiled down at him. "Perhaps save it for your son. And he shall go into the world and do fine things, instead of slaving for the likes of Butterbur."

"My son? Nob?" Cobb repeated with a laugh. "Oh, no, sir, he will not work in his father's footsteps. He is a great little hobbit, he is. Such a smart one." He was grinning as Elrohir and Ethan stepped into the room. Then he kissed the silver piece and nodded gratefully. "Enjoy your stay, gentlemen," then he walked away, shaking his head and chuckling to himself.

"I dislike men making servants of hobbits," Elrohir explained to Ethan's raised eyebrows. "Butterbur doesn't mean any harm, but…"

"I understand," Ethan said uncomfortably. They were standing in the small chamber now. There was a bed, a kerosene lamp on a night-stand, and a small door. Ethan nudged the door open with his foot and looked in—a giant copper washtub sat in the middle, and on a washstand, there was a pitcher in a bowl.

"A bit rustic," Elrohir commented.

"I don't think you understand," Ethan exclaimed, "This is far more compared to what I used to have."

"Why don't you sit down?" Elrohir suggested. "You look very pale indeed…"

"I've always been pale," Ethan tried to joke, but he turned back into the room and sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. "Good god. Why is it so soft?"

"Goosefeather," Elrohir answered. "This is why it is their finest room."

Ethan swung his legs up and laid back on the pillow. "Goosefeather… that's a bit… weird." The bed seemed to let him sink into it, molding directly to his shape. Then he yawned, and sat up, wincing. "Did I ever thank-you for not leaving me behind? No—I reckon I didn't, did I? Thank-you—I'd be dead out there if it wasn't for you."

"If you ever meet many elves," he replied, "You'll find some that are merry and friendly, those who are grim and heroic, and some that are cold and stern. Some may have left you to die. I cannot understand their minds—if we consider our species to be greater than that of men, our creed should be less selfish."

Ethan blinked. "I think that means you're welcome?"

"It does," Elrohir gave a swift bow. "I must leave you now. Brant will return and then you must send him back to the paddock to meet me. He and I have many duties in the north, and patrols are meant to be executed in a timely manner."

"I'm—I'm sorry if I made you late…"

"You were a detour, not an obstacle. But I do have a suggestion," Ethan had never met Elrohir's father, but he would have guessed that his stern expression looked very much like him just now. "Do not go looking for Lon-Don," Elrohir's voice was now of the grim and heroic kind. "You may become lost in the woods again. And Brant and I may not be within screaming distance the next time."

Ethan shivered. "Um… thanks. I'll keep that in mind. Thank-you again. Good—"

"_Novaer_," Elrohir suddenly swept out of the room, his cloak flowing behind him.

"—bye," Ethan finished, and the door shut.

The room was quiet, and Ethan could hear muffled laughter and talk under the floor where the bar and tables sat. The door burst open and Ethan jumped.

"Nice room they've got for you," Brant announced, a stout, bearded man standing behind him. "I've bought the physician. Where is Elrohir?"

"He said to meet you at the paddock," Ethan informed him. "This is goodbye."

"Oh, well, goodbye, then," Brant replied, "I would shake your hand, but…"

"Thanks," Ethan chuckled. "And thank-you for what you've done for me…"

"Are we not rangers of the north?" Brant shrugged. "Are we not protectors? You take care of yourself, and I wish you the best of fortune when you return to Lon-Don. _Novaer!"_

"Yeah, uh, _now-ffer_," Ethan tried to repeat unsuccessfully. Brant made a friendly salute and left the room, leaving the bewildered doctor standing in the frame. He was approximately fifty, red-haired, impressively sized.

"Now we shall relax," said the doctor, "I _cannot _be near those rangers for too long. They are so odd and mysterious."

"They saved my life," Ethan said defensively. For knowing them for less than a day, he felt something akin to loyalty. They would have been his allies in a war. _A war? Don't let that thought get away from you… you are not getting involved in the wars here. No rings or hobbits or messes for me. _

"Of course, of course," the doctor squeezed himself into the room and shut the door behind him. "Now why don't you tell me about what happened?"

* * *

**Sorry it's a bit of a filler chapter, but the next one really gets the plot going and we'll be seeing more familiar characters. Thank-you for all your wonderful reviews. I appreciate it. It's been a long time since the "Mary Sam" series and I thought it was time for something different and edgier. Also, in answer to one of your questions, there will be no slash, just friendship. Thanks for reading!  
**


End file.
